


lead me through the stars (and steal my breath away)

by parareve



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Clubbing, F/M, First Kiss, Modeling, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, a fashion show-turned-club fic, adrien knows, and a whole lotta prose, and everything comes out on the dancefloor, bonus: with dance!, marinette is a mess, mild steam occurs, ridiculous amounts of flirting and embarrassment occurs more, the quintessential one-person-knows reveal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 00:27:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16230419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parareve/pseuds/parareve
Summary: If anyone had told her she would be handed an invitation to Cannes Fashion Week a quarter to starting her second period, she would have laughed it off as some cruel jest of whatever gods loomed above them.If anyone had told her she would be handed that invitation by Adrien Agreste—Adrien, eyes like summer and mouth like spring, who had taken up next to no qualms about wading into the outskirts her world whenever the moment suited him; who had hands that had more than once chased away shivers across the freckled line of her forearms, whose fingertips bared the calloused etchings of a thousand parries and twice as many dances over slitted ivory; whose wrist had trembled and whose eyes had flickered fast to his feet when he held a crisp card out to her, black lettering stamped quiet into her own key to the universe—she might have dissolved into ash on the spot.





	lead me through the stars (and steal my breath away)

“ _Marinette_ ,” crows Alya, voice twinkling somewhere just out of reach, “Tell me you at least know what you’re wearing.”

Of all the things that had run through her mind that night, Marinette’s intuition to fashion had been placed, for perhaps only one of few times in her life, flatly on the backburner. 

She was someone who dreamed in texture and breathed color; who felt inspiration chase her with every rush of blood in her veins, every moonlit scrape of chalk on paper, every touch of air against the changing leaves. She bled ideas like summer storms, none quick enough to be tethered down through the downpour—they spilled out of her chaotic and crackling, thunderbolts of blind thought, too many to be caught and only few bright enough to be seen clear through the haze.

(And, true to fault, she was not someone who planned for _anything_.)

Half-crafted ideas of grand galas and glittering red carpets had been of no use to her over the past twenty-some hours, and her mind had never before felt so _useless_.

(She was not someone who planned for _Cannes_.)

“How I am supposed to know what to wear?!” Marinette balks, “I mean, I don’t—this is—I’ve never even _been_ to a show—”

“Right,” Alya says, smile only half-teasing as she brings her phone closer to peer through their video call.

“And— _and_ —not just any show, but _fashion week_ —”

“Mn- _hm_.”

“I-I mean—what am I supposed to do, show up in a rug and hope they don’t eat me alive?!”

“It could be worse,” muses Alya, palming her chin with a thoughtful smirk. “Cannes is a smaller thing, right? At least it’s not New York. Or _here_.”

Marinette huffs and blubbers and melts slow and defeated into the pile of windswept clothes at her feet, head puddling fast into her hands.

“Oh, god, it doesn’t matter,” she groans, “I’m going to _die_.”

Alya laughs then, voice making an abrupt dive into lethal waters— _It’s a wonder you haven’t died, already_ —and Marinette sends her fingers scattering high into her hairline with a muffled whine.

(If anyone had told her she would be handed an invitation to Cannes Fashion Week a quarter to starting her second period, she would have laughed it off as some cruel jest of whatever gods loomed above them.

If anyone had told her she would be handed that invitation by Adrien Agreste ( _Adrien_ , eyes like summer and mouth like spring, who had taken up next to no qualms about wading into the outskirts her world whenever the moment suited him; who had hands that had more than once chased away shivers across the freckled line of her forearms; whose fingertips bared the calloused etchings of a thousand parries and twice as many dances over slitted ivory; whose wrist had trembled and whose eyes had flickered fast to his feet when he held a crisp card out to her, black lettering stamped quiet into her own key to the universe), she might have dissolved into ash on the spot.

_I’ve…been wanting to do something for you_ , he had said, _And I know you’ve always wanted to go to a show, and I know the designers there are some of your favorite, and, um…_

His shoes had squeaked when he had rocked back on his heels, those eyes darting up to catch her own (a fleeting glimpse of heat, _green_ ) before flicking back down, and then he had held out the ticket to her ( _I wanted to invite you_ ), careful as an artist shaping glass, and she had been breathless with the fear of it shattering.)

From the corner of her eye, Marinette sees it lingering just out of sight, a bright silhouette outlined stark by the glow of her desk lamp; she had reread it countless times through lunch and her _physique-chimie_ —even twice over on her walk home from school—yet still the words rippled inside her with every desperate scroll of her eyes, the spell of its glamour never broken—

 

_you are cordially invited_

_you are cordially invited_

_you are cordially invited_

 

(It would be no Milan, no bursting crowds in the thick of Manhattan, but _still_ —it would be a _show_ , and one with Adrien _in it_.)

The very notion of sitting front-row during a display of _Agreste_ had sent her thoughts plummeting to the cliffside with every given chance, and she was convinced, with all certainty, that _none_ of this was happening—that it was wholly and irrefutably _not real_ , that she simply wasn’t going, and that come two days’ time at 5pm, she would be happily strolling through her routine walk home, like any normal Friday evening.

“Well, if it’s any help,” Alya says, voice melting easily back through the silence, and the smugness of her grin hardly needs to be seen, “He couldn’t keep his eyes off of you, today.”

The responding screech of Marinette’s lungs fizzling into dangerous collapse only earns her a bright cackle.

(It should have come as no surprise; Alya had been making vigorous efforts over the last month to convince Marinette that _something_ had changed—that somewhere between the dredging weeks of their winter break and the storm-laden months of their spring semesters, some sort of realization had kicked in at long last, and (for reasons Marinette could fathom just about as well as if she had learned her parents, in actuality, had been spies under a hidden force of British Intelligence) Adrien was _flirting_ with her.

_If you seriously think he isn’t, you’re beyond blind_ , she had sneered some weeks ago, when Marinette had finally lost all confidence in reality and came blathering to her about _why_ , seemingly out of nowhere, her crush of nearly two years had taken almost every opportunity to catch her eyes, bump her shoulder with his own, sneak a touch light enough to be casual.

So much _closeness_ was not something she had ever expected, and sure as hell wasn’t something her increasingly frazzled mental state could take.)

“Fine—I’ll tell you what,” chirps in Alya again, abruptly all-seriousness, “Why don’t you just make something? Or wear something you’ve already made? Solid color, simple— _instant_ fashion.”

Marinette peaks slow through the web of her fingers, mouth pinched into a wrinkled frown.

“You think that will be enough?” she huffs, peering down at her screen with a nervous twitch in her brow.

“ _Girl_.” Alya’s voice turns dangerous. “You got _invited_ ,” she says, silently tacking on _by the guy of your dreams_ through the wide flash of her grin. She stabs a freshly-manicured nail clear into view of the camera, finishing off without room for argument, “You’re enough as it is. All you have to do is show up.”

Marinette’s mouth snaps open once, then twice, grappling blindly for any sort of rebuttal, and is met every time with an intensifying stare of _Don’t even try it_ as Alya leans closer to the camera. She sighs, relinquishing in her defeat, palms smushing to her cheeks.

“I guess so,” she mumbles.

“I _know_ so,” Alya cuts in, “And, I swear _to god_ , you are going to that damn show, you are talking to your loverboy, and you two are going to have. A. _Night_.”

“ _But_ —”

“No buts!”

(Stomach diving into a sickening swoop, Marinette decided then and there that she would rather become victim to an akuma prone to spontaneous combustion than keel over from embarrassment on her first real chance of a night with Adrien.

At a show.

Alone.)

“… _Augh_.”

(She was going _to die_.)

.

Two days and countless hours spent pouring over her windstorm of a wardrobe later, she had decided (albeit anxiously), on a plain dress—strappy-sleeved and pearlescent pink, tapered clean to her waist, just a breath short of sheer.

It had been her first success at making a design from scratch some years ago, and tucked inside every seam were memories of honeyed tea and pricked fingers and the glow of autumn just outside her window (it felt warm, like home, like _her_ , and had turned up in her closet just when all hope seemed torn from her.)

_Although,_ she thinks now, hands hastily smoothing out a mountainous heap of wrinkles before bunching them right back up again, with all careless nervousness of the past few days rolling heavy into the clammy prickle of her fingers, _I still think it’s a little…short._

(Alya’s wild approval had been anything but subtle, perhaps for that little detail more than anything else, and she had threatened to denounce her outright if she so much as _thought_ of choosing anything else.)

Marinette sucks in a breath, tingling nervous in her chest as the plane’s atmosphere coats her, claustrophobic with possibility—the air feels stuffy and hot, the knowledge that come less than two hours’ time she would be walking through the coastal streets of Cannes putting a shivery knot tight between her lungs.

(She would be in the heart of old town, lost in a city renowned as the summer playground for the rich and famous; an average girl sitting front row ( _front row_ ) for a show whose venue likely cost enough to rob her of her life savings, shoulder-to-shoulder with some of the top up-in-comings in fashion. She would be feet away from a runway and she would be watching a full seasonal display and _Adrien_ would be walking—maybe even close enough to catch her eyes, flash her a smile—and, if Alya’s rampant suggestions for what would come next would be anything to remotely go by, her night would be far from over after that.)

Heat shivers up her spine and lands hot in her cheeks as Marinette fights down a building scream, staring with hard-willed determination at the passing clouds beside her.

(As if any of _that_ would happen.

As if Adrien Agreste, unattainable heaven descendant of her dreams, would have any interest chasing her down after the show to give her a peek of backstage, or suggest they take a walk down by the Rivera, or peer into the windows of Chanel on La Croisette, or…

Or anything else.)

Fantasies fed from years of distant frustration and guilty longings for luxury had no shame entering her mind like a maelstrom, and Marinette folds her arms tight as the heat in her cheeks explodes tenfold, making dutiful effort to block out the images of glamorous hotel elevators and penthouse suites and the hum of a movie forgotten while she took her time exploring the sensation of Egyptian cotton.

(Alya, wicked matchmaker as she was, had made no attempt to deny such possibilities, and had waved her away onto the plane with her heart in knots and her ankles jittering over quick advice for the best types of kisses to sneak in the dark.)

Marinette swallows, brow tight; steels herself for the growing descent through the clouds with anxious heat buzzing fast in her veins (because getting her hopes up would be _foolish_ , really, all things considered.)

The sky twinkles beyond two layers of glass, and though her mind clings steadfast to some shred of reason, still her heart flickers, _swells_ , caught on green green _green_ —

She puffs out a short inhale, nostrils flaring, and stares firmly at her lap.

( _As if_.)

 

.
    
    
      
    
    13:01
    
    
    
    Just Now
    
    
    
    2 New Messages

 

The vibration chases up from her hip, fast as lightning.

Marinette jolts, biting back a small shriek. Getting to the hotel had been a feat on its own, a journey barely sidestepping having the entire contents of her luggage splattered across the cobbled streets while she had clambered out of her taxi, weak-legged and flabbergast at the sheer opulence of the hotel she had been directed to; and standing now (still reeling from the state of her room, the seaside view lingering through the sheer air of her curtains) in a foyer carved from marble and plated in gold, surrounded by a sea of other attendees whose heels likely cost more than her education, the absolute last thing she wanted to do was act like a complete _buffoon_.

This was _her_ night, Alya’s teasing be damned. She had waited year after year, desperate for even a glimpse into a behind-the-scenes look at the world of fashion—and here it had all fallen into her lap, a glittering spell straight from a fairytale, every piece sewing seamless into a chance for her to throw her fears to the wind and _try_.

(Part of her itches, tingling, to bottle that magic before it leaves her, lest it fades by midnight.

Part of her still stumbles, heart pounding and knees weak, trying to find grounding in it all.)

She swallows hard and casts a nervous glance through the wall of pressed slacks and bright satin, swiftly clipping open her purse to steal a peek at the glow of her screen.

 
    
    
      
    
    13:01
    
    
    
    ♡Adri♡
    
    
    
    Hey :-)
    
    
    
    How was your flight?

 

Marinette all but dissolves on the spot, fingers flailing.

 
    
    
      
    
    13:01
    
    
    
    ♡Adri♡
    
    
    
    Hey :-)
    
    
    
    How was your flight?
    
    
    
                   hiu
    
    
    
    **hi!!
    
    
    
    it was fine! i got in just a bit ago!

 

The noise of the crowd shifts around her, leaving her dimly aware of shuffling shoes and flapping brochures, the ballroom doors creaking open in a silent call to find one’s seat. She follows the funnel of bodies absentmindedly, skirting on her tiptoes as another vibration blinks her screen back to life.

 
    
    
      
    
    13:03
    
    
    
    That’s good! :-)
    
    
    
    Backstage is insaaane but we should be on soon
    
    
    
    Think you’ll find your seat okay?

 

The lights of the venue wash over her, flashes of gold and soft blooms of white within her peripheral as her fingers fly frantic across the screen, lip between her teeth.

 
    
    
      
    
    of course!!
    
    
    
    what do you take me for, a helpless fool? :p

 

“—we’re in second,” chimes a voice somewhere behind her. Marinette freezes, foot catching on a chair; it sends her plummeting into an awkward stumble towards the front row, face flaming as the man dressed in head-to-toe Versace at the far end casts her an arched brow. She tiptoes carefully to her seat—fourth from the right—sitting with as much delicacy as she can muster between endless swaths of a handful of the highest up-and-comings in press.

Her phone buzzes again.

 
    
    
      
    
    13:05
    
    
    
    Why, I never doubted you in the first place.

 

The conversation that bubbles around her is deafening, claustrophobic with the weight of a thousand eyes, the rapid _click-click-clicks_ of _Show’s about to start, stay tuned…_

Her chest tightens for an entirely different reason.

 
    
    
      
    
    13:05
    
    
    
    I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for you ;-)

 

Marinette’s cheeks burn as her eyes search for anywhere else to land, as if doing so would make the text vanish from beneath them.

(It feels like too much, too _soon_ —

It feels like not enough.

And, for some unknown reason that draws tension tight in her bones, jittering and warm and strange, it feels _familiar_.)

Slowly, the minutes pass, flickering soft through her mind. Her fingers pluck and taper against the lines of her purse, her eyes ever wandering—from the sweeping velvet of the impromptu stage, to the lights clustering the ceiling in hues of honey gold; the sweeping arcs of satin skirts and iridescent gleams of glittered heels bouncing beneath the the haze, the flickered glow of phone screens beneath tapping fingers.

It feels like an eternity. And then at once, the lights dim.

Silence settles over the room, and like the fading of a dream, the show starts—hushed breath flickering across tilting heads and clicked pens, eyes blinking fast in the dark, anxious not to miss a moment as the stage glows, the beat hums.

Marinette’s lungs swell within her chest and stay fixed there, eyes wide, as a glittering heel makes its first appearance. The model glides onto the catwalk, a stunning supernova from head-to-toe; it is undeniably the mark of Alyoshka Dmitriev, every piece a force of star-laden skies, all sleek lines painted in moonlight. Marinette’s lungs draw tight as she sits, enraptured at the sight of galaxies on display: they unfold one after another, bursting with glamour—rippling layers of blue, orange, fuchsia, black, gleaming bright like a summer night.

To see one of her favorite newcomings in fashion on display is enough to leave her jittering; by now, any thought of her notepad has fled from her, and she squeezes to her phone like a lifeline, blind to the _click-click-clicks_ and frantic scribbling of the influencers beside her.

His collection unfolds like a meteor shower—dazzling, and vibrant, a bright flash of rippling skirts and crisp suits—there and gone in an instant.

Marinette releases her breath, soft as she can.

Then it is Lucia Alfonzo, the Italian powerhouse built by brother and sister; the staple gleam of their neo-mod androgyny prances onto the stage, with the starry-eyed theme of the night’s gala glinting subtlety through the flash of crystalline cufflinks and hand-sewn webs of starlight across bared collars. Marinette bounces forward in her seat to drink in every detail as flowing layers of satin blend bright with color, at once old and new—flowing skirts and layered slacks and loose tunics, draping curls and dark lips, gleaming deities descended.

A hush of murmurs follows the wake of their final model, glittering mantel fanning in the wake of diamond platformed heels, and then the air grows still (for now it is the headliner, the press sitting with spines rigid and pens eagerly at the ready, and Marinette twists her ankles together with her lip between her teeth, the hum of silence heavy and still.)

That quiet breaks, sharp as the shattering of glass—the beat sears into life with a breathy descent into quiet rhythm, setting the tone for the model who debuts the collection. The mark of powerhouse-designer Gabriel Agreste shines through every seam of the layered piece she wears, at once traditional and unconventional, clashing masculinity and femininity in a way that is simultaneously striking and beautiful. Silver-blonde hair curls tight into a faux-pixie, highlighter gleaming across her cheeks and dipping into the bare blush of her lips, coat and sweater and skirt tailored and flowing, gleaming with blues and greens and sparkling crystal, like a midnight forest embodied. She is the goddess, and behind her the followers—and it is only with attention half-focused that Marinette catches a flash of golden curls, nails pinching sudden against her knees.

When her eyes find him, it is impossible to look away. Adrien Agreste is a force of magic against dark velvet, painted in stark lines of black and green, labradorite flickering in dazzling drops from his ears. The glossy sheen that paints his lids and the gleam of his cheeks is enough to make her heart bottom out, and at once it strikes her, the femininity and hazy beauty that is _him_ —for he is no longer the boy she met in the rain, eyes sharp on an endless seam before his feet and face chiseled with a dusting of freckles unhidden, broad-bodied and tapered-waist and steps effortless beneath the cropped flare of his slacks.

It is halfway to the end of the runway that his eyes cut right—and the gleam of their focus doesn’t fade, even as they cast across four faces to land clean on her own. (There is heat and power and _freedom_ in the way he carries himself on display, and it shines in countless layers of green as she stares, voiceless, at the way he fixes himself upon her, even as his stride carries himself fearlessly still. It leaves her tremoring, stripped bare beneath the _rawness_ —and he grins, teeth flashing just slightly crooked, batting her a small wink as he turns on his heel at the runway’s edge, seamless, carried back to the darkness of off-stage.)

Forty-five minutes close with the pounding of a thousand heartbearts as Marinette draws in a tight breath, limbs numb and shivering.

(He had never looked at her like _that_.)

The audience cheers, applause loud and proudly given, as designer after designer strides onto the stage. It is only when the influencer at her side makes an impatient clip of neon pink heels that she realizes she had missed the entire closing statement, her row filtering fast into the building crowd outside the ballroom.

(Marinette squeaks and curses and apologizes—once for her rudeness, twice for her ungraceful splutter of _Shit!_ —and shakily tugs her purse to her shoulder as she clacks her way into the foyer.

Still, her heart drums—beat-beat- _beating_ beneath her breast, her thoughts cycling dangerously into dark territory— _what does it mean what does it mean what do I mean?_ )

The crowd clusters among the room into a cacophonous roar, giggles shrieking through the muddle and the clinking of catered champagne building rapidly amongst the back corner. Through their chaos, Marinette smiles, small and awkward, doing her best to blend into the sea of unfamiliar faces.

( _What do I mean to him?_ )

It is only a moment (ankles wobbly, cheeks warm) before the blistering surge of voices burst within the entrance of the ballroom—and before Marinette can turn her head, his voice comes at her side, warm and familiar.

“Did you like the show?”

It is at once grinning and dazzling and nervous, and when her eyes jump beside her, there is Adrien, makeup half-removed and clothes freshly changed, a simple button-down and slacks on him.

Marinette’s mouth unhinges helplessly, teeth clacking.

“Ye—yea—yes! Yes, I loved it!” she gasps, grinning blindingly wide and hands snapping behind her back. “It was, uh…super cool! Really cool! I’ve, um…I’ve never seen anything like it!”

“Yeah?” Adrien sighs, grin beaming wide and white on his face.

“Y-Yeah!” Marinette squeaks, with smile pinking shy at her cheeks.

Adrien scrubs a hand through the back of his hair, tangling messily at the line of his nape; his eyes jump down, smile softening at one corner, then up at her eyes—then with a short intake of breath dip down again, slow as a flame, landing absently at the white bows of her heels before climbing back up to her own—and Marinette stiffens like a punch to the gut, puffing out some hoarse sound of fatal injury.

One blonde brow jumps up slightly at that, and Adrien _smirks_ (Marinette handles that about as well as finishing blow, eyes blown wide and arms pinching tight).

“I, uh,” he says, scuffing his shoe lightly over the tile, “I just kinda ran out here—I wanted to say hi…but, um…I-I still need to get this makeup off—do you wanna see backstage?”

It comes out stumbling and torrential, cheeks pink when his eyes dart back to her own, and he slides his palm down to cradle the back of his neck, mouth pinching at one corner.

“Backsta— _Uh_ —”

“You…mentioned something about that before, right?” Adrien continues, smile slowly widening. “I mean, I—it’d be no trouble, come on, you should—”

“I—”

“W-Well, that is, if you want to—”

“I’d love to,” Marinette squeaks out, cheeks burning.

“Yeah?” Adrien grins softly, hands sliding to his pockets.

“Y-Yeah, of course,” murmurs Marinette. She swallows hard and twists her hands behind her back, shuffling her shoes as a shy smile grows on her face.

“Cool,” Adrien says (and if his voice jitters at the edges, she can do nothing but helplessly mirror it, sticking her thumb up with a wordless grin; he blinks at her before chuckling, throaty and soft, and she feels her cheeks burn, already waist-deep in embarrassment).

“It’s…a bit hectic,” he continues with a smile, glancing back at her as he guides her nimbly through the crowd, “But—well—this is the reality of it, you know, it’s all kinda hectic, but it’s _cool_ —it’s really cool, like, I think you’ll like it a lot—” Through the ballroom archways he leads them, past champagne-toting conversationalists and a speckling of hotel staff, through a cold hallway towards the back of the ballroom that dumps into the reception bay. He passes through the sharp lines of red double-doors, chattering all the while, “—but this was kinda a small show for my Dad, y’know, not that big of a thing—but sometimes I like these better; they’re more intimate, you know? Anyway, usually backstage takes up to two hours of prep or longer, it’s a big process, and once it starts things go fast—most shows have multiple walks, but this one was kind of unconventional—”

Marinette listens about as well as her ears can let her as they step into a room sectioned off into rows and rows of impromptu dressing rooms, clothing racks, and hair and makeup stations, teams of designers orchestrating a madhouse of tagged outfits and pinned schedules. The flash of a camera gleams to their right as a rapid interview follows the process, fashion reporters clustered in small teams to spitball questions; through the flutter of fabric and the shimmering haze of makeup remover, they wind themselves slow to a makeup station with _AGRESTE_ typed out on blank paper, and Marinette draws in a slow breath, vibrant in the chaos.

“What do you think…?” Adrien asks with a soft smile, resting his shoulder against the mirror.

“I—this is… _wow_ ,” Marinette breathes. “This is—you do this at every show?”

“Every show,” Adrien echoes and nods, “It’s…a lot, sometimes, but…it’s cool, right?”

“ _Cool?_ ” Marinette stares slowly around the lights in the room; around the warm energy of countless bodies, all working, talking, fluttering to and fro between interviews and dressing rooms and tables; around the flash of cameras, and the electric glow of the mirrors, and the hazy reflection of herself in the sheen of glass beside them. “More than cool,” she whispers, and grins, bright as the moon.

She traces her fingers absent over the iridescent threads of the suit hung beside them, fingering the cuffed sleeve of an oversized blazer like a sacred object. Every seam bleeds with the obsessive detail of years of work, and she can do nothing but bask in their final product, lost in the reality that _this_ is what fashion is (as much sweat and tears as it is beauty, as competitive as it is communal—her own dream eerily manifested, like a tiny glimpse into a window of her future potential).

Adrien smiles, not saying a word. Slowly, he makes work of grabbing a sponge and makeup remover, a familiar process repeated with easy and thoughtless grace; the sponge is discarded, a towel pressed to pinked skin, and Adrien cords a hand light through the mess of still-coiffed curls before grinning.

“Let’s get out of here before some interviewer chases me down,” he says, “I don’t want any distractions like that. Or, god forbid, my _Dad_.” The word slithers out from him, deep and theatrical, and it draws a breathless laugh from her as he flashes her a soft smile.

“Have you ever seen the Riviera, Marinette?” he murmurs then, eyes steady on her. She feels her pulse in her throat when she shakes her head slowly.

“Only in pictures,” she says, smiling quick and shy, “Why?”

Adrien grins, eyes twinkling in the flicker of fluorescent lights.

“Come on, I’ll show you.”

He holds his hand out to her, as easy as a flower blown to the wind. Marinette’s lungs still within her chest, eyes wide where she takes in the familiar shape of his palm (for it is something she has seen before, and something she feels she has seen a million times since). Her hand moves on impulse, a nervous jolt that softens slow into a bump of fingers, a touch of palms. He welcomes it, as though he has welcomed it a thousand times before.

He is shy where his eyes catch hers and nervous with his steps, but does nothing more but lead the way.

With heart thudding and soft, Marinette can do nothing but follow.

.

The shock of quiet from the crowd they leave behind sinks into her skin the moment the door claps shut behind them, quick as the brisk chill of night air that casts across her shoulders. Adrien meanders across the cobbled path of the hotel entrance, hushed chattering of bypassers flocking in and out of her peripheral. He skirts the curb of the sidewalk, the warmth of his hand tingling electric within her own.

“I’ve, uh…it’s been a while since I’ve been here,” he murmurs, glancing back at her before turning out to look towards the hotel’s overlook, the ocean glinting distantly beyond the nearby terrace.

“You’ve been here before?” Marinette says, tilting her head at him.

“We used to come here for vacations.” Adrien steps off the curb onto the walkway, aloof. “And film festivals, too.”

“Oh.”

In her chest, Marinette’s heart _stings_ —aching to do something, _say_ something—but the words feel trapped, tied tight within her throat and weighing in heavy knots in her stomach. She swallows, just catching his eyes and the glint of a smile within them.

“So, um,” Adrien says, eyes jolting down, “What’d you think of the show?”

Marinette sways light on her heels, her cheeks burning.

“It was…it was _amazing_ ,” she whispers, “I mean, I…I’ve always thought they would be like that, but to actually _see_ someone’s work up there…and to see all that goes into it, all that has to happen for it to even go on—” She sighs, wistful. “I want to make things like that.”

Adrien glances over at her, cheek dimpling at one side. The question comes quiet then, lingering swift into the air.

“What kind of designs do you want to make?”

He turns to her, thumb grazing light over the pad of her own, and Marinette shivers into stillness, stomach somersaulting and brain numb.

“I—uh, I---well,” she stammers, walking unsteadily towards the cusp of the terrace. “I don’t know.” Awkwardly, she picks at her nails, chest thundering as she turns to look beyond the terrace’s edge—and past the fragrant blooms clustered among it, she can see _everything_ : the flicker of lights weaving through the town below, the stars glinting above, the moonlight a bright haze against the ocean’s horizon (it steals everything from her—her words, her thoughts, her fears—and she can do nothing but breathe it in, lost in the scent of honeyed air that surrounds them).

“Wow,” she whispers then, breathless and soft.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Adrien says quietly.

Marinette stands, lost within the magic of the view, breathing in a sharp breath before her inspiration finds her.

“I want to make designs that make people feel like this,” she says. “Good, and…happy, and…”

Adrien’s eyes never stray from her, smile softening into one just slightly crooked.

“And free,” Marinette finishes, simple as that. “No boundaries, no restrictions—just—just art. Designs like that.”

It is the soft determination and confidence in her voice, building firm through the air between them, that draws something like awe into his own chest when he looks down and then back up at her, murmuring soft and sure, “I know you will.”

The words wash over her the way a storm bleeds from above, and Marinette turns to him, speechless and still, fingertips tingling where the pads of his own brush against them. The silence that settles builds, _burns_ —and just when her mouth parts, the quiet breaks, sudden as the crash of the doors swinging open behind them. The stillness of the air shatters with unrestricted cheers of models off-duty, the streets echoing with clatters of laughter and scuffing steps. One model spots them through the throng and calls out with arm raised, voice a bright cheer.

“Hey, Agreste! There’s an _après-fête_ at Le Rossignol! We’re all going!”

Adrien jolts when he calls after them, brows scrunched, “Where—?”

“ _Rossignol!_ The club! _Come_ on, _frère_! Let’s go!”

Through the clacking of heels and blistering roar of screeches that follow, something in the air changes, making Marinette’s stomach twist into shivering knots as Adrien’s thumb lingers against her own—the lightest pressure, _questioning_ —and it twists within her, a nervous sort of magic that makes time itself seem to stand still, lost within the heart-thundering chance for _something_.

“I…guess we could do that?” says Adrien, his eyes flicking to her own. Marinette swallows hard, mouth pressed.

“I guess we could,” she echoes, drawing her lip between her teeth.

Around them, the city smells of nectar and salt, glowing with the haze of newborn streetlamps all sizzling with promise, beckoning to her (they spread whispers through the streets, twinkling with laughter–– _night is here_ ), and in the dark his eyes are the only thing she can see. They turn down, lashes glinting gold where the light catches them, cheek dimpling as dusk-pink lips twist, soft and crooked, at one side, before they flick back up to catch hers—and she is lost in _green_ , the kind of earthy new-green that gleams beneath the spring sun and tucks itself away into mossy groves under the waning moon, that sings of birdsong and forest musk and whispers of midnight rain on damp earth.

Adrien smiles then, the pads of his fingers wandering with unhurried exploration where they graze over her own, a shy dance through the unfamiliar map of her fingerprints.

“So,” he starts, eyes darting down just enough to make her breath catch, warm as a touch where they linger on the open part of her mouth before they raise back up, and his teeth cast an imprint upon the side of his lip to dampen a building grin. Her heart pounds hard enough to ache when his hand squeezes warm over her own, sending shivery anticipation running fast down her spine; stars shine in the playful twinkle of his eyes, and in the dark he is bright and wild and _free_.

His voice rumbles into a murmur, soft and low—and in that moment Marinette knows that she is forever gone, lost like a sailor to a starlit siren.

“Want to dance?” he says, and his grin widens, slow and gentle, sending her heart tumbling twice-over with the carefree lilt of his mouth at one corner; no matter how her world spins, settling harsh into the wobble of her ankles, the dizzying heat in her cheeks, it takes next to nothing to find her grounding as her own shy smile rivals his own.

Her hand squeezes his back, steady and sure.

She doesn’t have to think twice.

Words are helpless to her, but every inch of her being—from the slow nod of her head, to the tentative lacing of her fingers with his, to the clench of her toes as she risks leaning close enough to let their knuckles bump, their forearms brush—sings bright and loud, clear as the sun: _Yespleaseyes_.

Adrien’s smile is dazzling where it blooms wider, flashing white against the pink of his lips, and he wastes no time to press their palms closer, long fingers tangling steadily with her own.

“Then we have to catch up!” he says quickly—and without warning, they’re off, shoes clapping against the cobblestones and the air bubbling with electric effervescence as they whirl around the winding corner and down from the cliffside. Marinette swallows down a shout and twists their fingers tight like a lifeline, stumbling into short clacking steps to keep her heels from catching the grooves, her free hand flailing high to clamp her careful up-do from flying to the wind.

The blur of lights is chaotic, and she is far too close to falling, adrenaline rushing hot in her veins; a screech wobbles past her, half-formed, as the tiny road weaves steeper, but further ahead the crowd they had left behind hangs in the bend like a bright beacon, and Adrien’s hand never leaves her.

The rush aches in her bones, startling and _familiar_ , as they scramble to catch the nearest lightpost; Adrien snatches it, palm clapping hard with practiced ease to the glossy black of the pole’s middle, and swings them to make the corner with perhaps more ungraceful flare than necessary, tugging Marinette high to miss the puddle that gleams beneath her feet (she skitters just beyond it with a leap of faith at the last moment, instinct ringing sharp in her bones to land and _run_ ); the jump sends them stumbling into a wave a vertigo, and she is unable to hold back a spluttery shriek as they tumble into a wild spin, hands slipping to hang on by the breadth of their fingertips. Adrien reaches out to shield themselves from the rapidly growing gleam of pale brick, bouncing off the wall to send them into a slower twirl, dizzy and giggling and somehow still alive.

“Sorry,” he blurts breathlessly, hair thoroughly windswept and cheeks flushed, struggling to fight down a grin at the pout half-transformed into a wobbly smirk on freckled cheeks.

Marinette does her best to fix him with petulant stare, all frazzled clothes and ruined hair, but can’t keep it long enough; he is already laughing before she is, and by then the only thing she can do is give him a good-natured swat and a sneer of _Pest_.

Adrien’s brow perks high at that, and at once his grin turns feline, taking no time at all to land back on his feet.

“Fine. _Bug_.”

The tease snaps off his tongue like a punchline (familiar, heard _before_ ), flooding her with images of jingling bell-collars and black ears; he leaves her balking in stunned silence as he turns to melt them into the tail of the crowd they had left, instantly lost in the clamored babble of models off-duty, and any thoughts Marinette had been churning are thrown to the wind as the energy of the alley envelops her.

A steady pulse tingles in her toes and makes its way up her legs to linger in her bones, thrumming with the disoriented bass that hums beneath the pavement. The clusters of young models blur into one heap of velvet and sequins and short skirts where they are bunched together, and between them Marinette can see the glow of neon that paints their clothes electric blue and magenta from beneath the shelter of an old warehouse.

Nervous energy prickles in her chest as the bass grows thicker in her bones and the crowd shuffles closer, all funneling in one-by-one through the haze of sweet smoke and cigarettes into the swath of blue-pink that coats the pavement, and with hands knocking against her thighs into nervous fists she turns quick to Adrien, brow scrunching—

“Are you sure we can get in?”

He glances over at her, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, and this close Marinette can feel the heat of him, distinctly aware of the scent of his cologne.

“Worried we can’t?” he says, light enough to be a whisper as he smiles at her, equally jittery with excitement.

“But we’re—we’re not sneaking in, are we?!” Marinette squeaks, with color rising rapid to her cheeks, “We can’t just _sneak in_ —”

“We’re not sneaking in,” Adrien corrects calmly.

“Oh, _really_ —”

“ _Shh_ , just follow me,” he says, quick and sure, as his hand reaches down to find hers again; without further time to think, she is drawn deeper into the crowd, hardly any room to breathe between the stuffy musk of perfume and fabric. Adrien waggles his brows at her, entirely too calm for her nerves ( _there’s no way this will work!_ hangs on frantic repeat in the back of Marinette’s mind), but as the older models _click-clack_ in fast steps down to swarm around the bouncers, flashing IDs and short smiles, one hand finds Adrien’s shoulder and shoves with a whisper of _Go on_ , and before she has time to let any questions bubble out of her Marinette finds herself doubled down, following quick behind the guiding pull of a tanned hand that vanishes quickly beneath the rim of faux leather jackets and into a forest of stockinged thighs.

Marinette flounders for balance as they weasel their way through the tangle of legs, the roar of chattering voices and the pulse of the bass calling out to them louder and louder—and then they are up, and there is _air_ , and everything is hot and bright and _loud_.

A mosaic of glittering tile crests the arch of the ceiling, flashing sparkling reflections of color and light across the sea of people filling the floor. The crowd gleams like artwork, simultaneously an unidentifiable blob and a painting of unique features splashed across every corner—oversized blazers on skinny girls, bearded men with earrings and heels, someone with curls dyed as vibrant as the lights flickering across the room, vintage diamonds flashing holographic against pink skin.

In the middle of it all, Marinette feels instantly like a number, nameless, and yet wholly welcome in a world of underground artists, and the jittering nervousness boiling in her blood warms bright into a newfound confidence, the same self-claimed anonymity given by a spotted mask.

“Is this okay?” comes Adrien’s voice, breath rustling hot by her ear to be heard over the music; this close she can _feel_ him—the tickle of his lips on the shell of her ear, the drum of his pulse where his chest brushes her shoulder, the warm graze of his fingertips over her own. The summery musk that clings to his collar drowns her, filling every breath with juniper and sandalwood and spice (it stirs heat deep in her chest, demanding a touch, a _taste_ )—and amidst the sickly-sweet combination of candied perfume and sweat and the smell of liquor in the air, it intoxicates her.

She feels warm and electric and _alive_ , pulse sizzling with every rush of the bass, every jolt of heat where the bare brush of their arms meet; she swallows hard, feeling countless months of lost opportunities burning bright and vibrant at the edges of her being, and knows she is helpless anymore from acknowledging the dizzying swoop of _want_ in her gut (she wants every quality of Ladybug without the mask, with every inch of her being, perhaps more than ever; she wants that freedom for _herself_ , for him to know her as she is, to see her unfold.

But most of all she wants to see that change within _himself_ —to watch a metamorphosis take hold of him, genuine and unabashed, the thrill of freedom gleaming from his toes to his fingertips with his smile no longer restrained.

She wants to see _him_.)

Their noses are nearly close enough to touch when she turns, and the crowd vanishes in that moment, nothing left save the space between them.

“Yeah,” she says, quiet and confident, grin unraveling slow over her face at the budding flush in his cheeks; and with what traces of building courage she can muster, she pulls her voice higher enough to tack on, “More than okay.”

The response thrills her; his eyes bloom wide, thrown for a loop at the sudden wave of confidence that flows from her, playful and impish and entirely too _known_ (there is no way she could be anyone else, by now he is sure of it, and he is hopelessly powerless to the way he drowns within the thought, heat growing desperate in his chest).

“W-Well then,” he stammers, abruptly speechless in the closeness, “We should, uh—we should—”

“Find a spot?” Marinette finishes, only somewhat shakily, red lips pressing into a coy grin. Adrien, stunned into silence, flounders twice at responding before giving up on words. He nods instead.

She is weak in the knees and giggling by the time they meander through the crowd to settle on a small pocket off the outskirts of the floor’s center. The air is electric, sizzling through Marinette’s chest, putting a nervous itch in her toes to _move_ ; she swallows hard, one hand raising quick and shaky to brush back the loose locks of her hair behind her ear.

“I...haven’t danced in a while,” she manages, and Adrien’s brows knit together as he leans forward, mouth moving quick— _What?_ A knot stings in her chest as she presses closer ( _I haven’t danced in a while!_ she yells this time, and his head bounces back, face splitting with a bemused grin); she is cherry-red and through her third apology by the time he leans back in to speak against her ear ( _It’s okay, me neither_ ), and when he moves back his eyes are warm and glittering beneath the shards of starlight above.

In his eyes, she sees a rainy day and a black umbrella, the first bump of fingertips; sees the eyes of a boy fit into an older face, jaw sharper and cheeks more hollowed, hair a frazzled mess about his brow; she sees _herself_ , eyes wide and blue and lips stark red against the pallor of her skin, midnight hair a tangled mess in her windswept ponytail, freckled shoulders bunched together and collar pink.

She sees forest green and pupils blown wide against the dark and tanned cheeks glowing with their own flush, sees the same ache for freedom in his eyes—a desperate thing clawing at his being, crying out to be himself, to let _go_.

Her bones are jittery and her heart racing (because _god_ , does she want it too), and with her breath rattling shaky in her lungs, she lets her fists loosen.

(The world tastes foreign and hot and intensely _new_ on her tongue the moment she realizes she doesn’t need the spots.

He sees them in her, already.)

It starts with a slow shuffle of shoulders, a small turn of hips; she is blushing and giggling and awkward with her hands as they brush down her thighs, sending the chiffon rippling into a wave of pearl-pink from her sides. But still, he is entranced ( _enraptured_ ) by her, eyes never straying; like a first bloom in spring, she blossoms slowly, hands finding the courage to raise from her waist with the careful grace of an artist’s first strokes, hips gradually blending into a rhythm within the throbbing hum of the beat.

Adrien swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in a fluid rush as heat grows steadily in his chest, sweeping him from cheek to toe (there is only one person he sees on that floor, eyes vibrant and hair bouncing against her shoulders and lips bitten in a red-rimmed grin, and his heart is in his throat and his stomach in his toes as he tries to remember to breathe, entirely lost in the magic that is _her_.)

Marinette giggles, her eyes catching his through her bangs, magnetizing where they gleam blue-pink (Adrien’s heart takes a sudden plummet after that, heat pooling low in his belly), and without warning she reaches out ( _Come on!_ she says, half-heard, but the words come through enough); Adrien stumbles with the unexpected pull to stand toe-to-toe, one hand clasping instinctively to the hollow of her waist before leaping away, only the space of a breath, fingertips hesitant where they linger like sunspots against the sheer pink of her dress.

He is nearly a head taller, putting a tilt in his neck to catch her eyes (big and bluebell and shining like a morning sky, a weak tremor in his knees and a lump in his throat when those red lips scrunch a little, like a rose closing in against the chill).

“Is this okay?” she says, close enough to be heard over the sizzle of the beat.

(Adrien swallows hard again; steels the tremor in his fingers as his palm slides down to press back into the curve of her waist. His thumb grazes the flutter of her ribs, light as a bee’s wing, fingertips spanning the small of her back.)

“Yeah,” he breathes, voice only somewhat unsteady. Slow, warm as a flame, his eyes cast down to steal a glimpse of the flush that pinkens her shoulders, the dip of her collarbones (she ripples like a current, lashes dark as night framing wide eyes when they find each other again). “More than okay.”

She is breathless and she is shining and she is _beautiful_ when he looks at her, and she knows, with a thrilling rush down her spine, that he will look at nothing else.

(The very notion sends her stomach into shivery knots; she can’t think, voice stolen from her like a creature of the sea given a first taste of air, and in the flickering haze of smoke and candied lights she is much too eager to drink it all in.)

The song shifts, seamless, but the whistling change of rhythm is unmistakable, a remix of bursting guitar chords and velvet vocals; and through the rush of pulsating bodies and twisting hands it is Adrien who moves first, palm smoothing with cautious brazen to lay flush to the dip in her back. With her breath caught on a gasp, she is pulled _closer_ ; her fingers race to grapple for balance, head spinning with the dizzying rush of blue and pink and green, green, _green_ —they land flat upon the heat of his torso, pearlescent nails gleaming bright, and beneath her palm his pulse _soars_.

His eyes snatch her attention, shy and soft and dark, and then the white flash of his teeth, and he is blushing, stardusts of freckles tinted purple across the bridge of his nose—but he _wants_ her, he wants _this_ , and she can feel it with every pulse that sizzles up her legs to land like an endless drum in her heart.

Marinette’s lips tease at a smile where they press together, and with the swooping drop of the beat, she sends her hands firm towards his chest, spiraling fast away into a glittering twirl of hips. His fingers chase after her, rippling down the bend of her elbow and the smooth line of her forearm before dancing at the edge of her fingertips, and it’s here the startled quirk of his lips flourishes, smile growing wide as he lets her glide away.

(It feels like a dance they’ve made before, one of cat-and-mouse across the rooftops of sunburst nights, and he lets her go with every instinct singing sure that they will find their way back again.)

She moves like starlight, soft and distant and blazing all at once; her feet are a windswept thing, tiptoeing and light, as if never sure where to tie herself down, with fingers ever drifting. Her nails capture the light where they glide up, up, _up_ —from the opalite swirl of her skirt, to the pinkened swell of her shoulders, to the loose ends of her hair, and farther still, as if to soak up the night’s glow within them.

(Adrien wants nothing more than to feel those hands within his own, spellbound where he watches the twirl of her fingers, the shift of her shoulders. She catches his eyes, blue glinting bright with a sharp giggle as she watches him, still motionless where he stands—and if his heart jolts a little when he barks out a laugh himself, cheeks stinging and bones numb with the ache to _dance_ , he can do nothing but let it run after her.)

Her hands call to him, gleaming with nameless spellwork. Slowly, like an enchantment sliding soft over him, his feet begin to find their own rhythm—a blended jumble of movement, drawing him closer and closer still—and it’s a messy thing, grins blooming wide beneath the flaring lights, all twisted arms and knocking knuckles. Strands of midnight and sunny gold cling to the glimmer of heat that beads on their cheeks, shoes stumbling into an offbeat tango.

At some point, her hands are lost at her neck—and then her hair is set _free_ , red ribbon glinting blue where she tangles it within her fingers. She spins then, arms fanning out delicate with the turn of her heel; his fingers find the hollow of one wrist, tracing light down the blue-pink flash of her skin to catch the bend of her elbow, freckles dimpled beneath his touch.

Marinette’s eyes flutter closed, breath whooshing from her lungs in a heart-jolting shudder as he steps closer to draw her back, the bare wings of her shoulders bouncing light against the warm press of his chest. Absently, his other hand wanders in a blind search for its missing pair (it is only a heartbeat before her fingers messily collide with his own, lost in their own scavenging), and she laughs, breathless, as his fingers chase up the inside of her wrist, palms shivery where they bump into a slow press.

His breath tickles hot on the exposed dip of her neck, sending her heart thundering in her ears as its heat wanders far past the start of her spine, her toes curling tight within her shoes; she is shaky with exhilaration and blind in her own desperation to shut her eyes off from the world, just for a moment, as his lips hover at the bend of her neck (begging for a touch, a _taste_ ), a ghost of a caress where they glide up, the tip of his nose bumping warm against her ear.

“You’re…beautiful,” he breathes, words scattering against her skin like a prayer. There is not an ounce of insincerity in the awed rasp of his voice to make her believe otherwise.

(She trembles, nerves burning bright in her veins as she lights like a livewire; swallows air hard through the open part of her mouth, lashes flickering where they clench tight, far too afraid to open them now.)

His thumb glides slow against the soft rasp of her skin, and there it lingers, resting warm against the point where her pulse sings out like a siren.

(Her weight shifts light into her heels, intoxicated off the barest hint of his touch; it sends her skin shivery with the ache to feel feel _feel_ , and her back finds the swell of his sternum, melting just a tad closer (his breath puffing sharp against her ear, fluttering within the cage of his throat)—and she can do nothing but shiver at the way he supports her weight without question, heat melting fast through her clothes, all legs and tensed abdomen and puffing chest and pounding heart.)

“You think so?” she whispers, voice swallowed within the music like a drowning stone—but he _knows_ , eyes locked on the tilt of her mouth with every word sealed into memory—and her knees are halfway to a full-blown collapse when he guides her closer still, lashes tickling against her cheek.

“You know,” he says, and there is _something_ lingering in the rasp of his voice that stings within her, “If I would know any better, I’d say you didn’t believe me.” His smile grows, cheek dimpled against her own (the hard line of his jaw tickling her skin, making her throat run dry, her skin _burn_ ), and he says, “I’ve only ever called one other person that.”

(It sounds like summer nights and the honeyed glow of the Eiffel Tower beneath her feet and the smell of nectar in the air.

It sounds like _Chat_.)

“Although…she always did say she didn’t like me saying things like that…too unprofessional, and all—”

“Adrien,” Marinette squeaks, and it is the only thing she can get out from her shaking chest, eyes flying open.

“Yeah?” he says. The husky timber of his voice sends her pulse plummeting, entirely too _close_ to let her mind function at all (she drags in a breath, fingers tremoring, heart in her stomach; squeezes her eyes shut and braces herself hard for whatever hurricane of words threaten to spill from her, palms hot where their fingers touch).

“I…” she murmurs, head turning further to be heard. Slowly, her lashes flutter open, cheeks burning when her eyes land on blue-pink-green, and the warmth of his breath casts slow across the open part of her mouth (sending her rigid, _melting_ ). She swallows again, courage growing soft in her chest, like caged blooms straining to be set free. “I like you,” she says finally, and it comes out trembling and fast, like a surging brook, tingling warm in the air between them. “Like—a, a _lot_ , and—uh—”

It feels too natural, the way his hand settles warmly against her own, turning her further (and she has no room to protest, not with how her heart _sings_ at the bump of their knees, the way his head tilts to keep hold of her eyes).

“And?” he probes on, smile growing wider still as one brow perks up slightly (and he is close enough to let his nose brush against hers, the taste of his breath caught against her tongue as she claws desperate for any shred of air, eyes blown wide).

“A- _And_ …” Marinette gasps, blinking fast, all too quickly shriveling into speechlessness, “And, um…I…”

“Yeah,” Adrien says, rasping soft into a sigh (smile melting slow into the open part of his lips, lashes tipping lower)—and Marinette cannot breathe, cannot _move_ , cannot do anything but peep out _Oh_ as the dewy press of their noses tilts into a bump of lips, a touch of fingertips, a curling of toes (he is close enough to drown her in the heat of his skin, the spice of his cologne; and she is helpless to the way her heart _roars_ , fingers numb, mouth tingling as she tilts her head up and _dives_.)

He welcomes her in like one dying of thirst—like he has been begging for _years_ , and only now has been granted a taste—and she is weightless and lost dizzyingly within her own skin when the wet part of his mouth beckons her closer, warm and velvet and mint and _real_.

She can’t think. She can’t _move_ , hands frozen against the thundering pulse of his chest; it is at once too much and not enough, sending her spiraling with the sensation of warm, wet, gliding soft into a pant of breath against the open part of their lips—and it stirs hunger inside her, desperate and aching and _wanting_ (because nearly two years had left her here, begging for _anything_ , and here he was giving giving _giving_ —)

“Mari,” Adrien says, somewhere between the swell of the beat around them—and it sends her skin searing with the way his breath hangs just slightly uneven on his tongue, the way her name sighs off his lips, husky and _oh_ —

(Her fingers are numb where they clench lightly at his collar, splayed soft over the firm line of his shoulders. When she opens her eyes it is too bright, and his thumb is dragging light over her waist, and she is lost in the way green eyes flutter open, as if still blinking the haze from them.)

A grin splits his face, soft and slow; and then it unravels all at once, bright and wide and entirely too starstruck.

“Wow,” he says, and then giggles, “I’ve…uh…I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

_A long time_.

(Marinette’s stomach threatens to dive out from beneath her then and there.)

“You’re not the only one,” she murmurs, eyes blinking slow up at him; and the slight prick of white teeth on the flushed swell of her lip is almost enough to destroy Adrien alone, his lungs bottoming out into a sharp hitch of breath.

“O-Oh…” he stammers, “That’s…that’s good to know.”

It is too easy for her to welcome the way his nose bumps against her own; too easy for her fingers to glide molten and slow down the shuddering plain of his chest, nails catching in the light that blinks against pearlescent buttons.

“Yeah,” she breathes.

His eyes are still lost within her own when he swallows, thumbs grazing against the curve of her hip softly.

“I, ah…um…”

“Could…use some water?” Marinette blinks up at him, mouth pinching at a smile just slightly crooked, and it’s enough to make his knees weak.

“Y-Yeah.”

“And maybe some air?”

“ _Yeah_.”

“Okay.”

“That sounds…that sounds good,” Adrien whispers, dizzy with weightlessness as his grin widens. Her smile is shy where it blooms in return, and slowly her hands fall down to find his own. This time, it is her touch that leads them.

.

The night air envelops them, crisp with the fog of salt air and the clammy-cold of ocean mist. Each breath coats Marinette’s lungs with a rush of cool and calm and comfort, cleansing her from the sweltering heat of the club’s atmosphere that clings still to her skin.

Reality crawls back to her slowly, the fantasies of the past hour clashing hard into the chill of weather-worn stone as she smooths her hands about the carved banister. Within mere hours, two years of distance had been danced away beneath her feet, an enemy-turned-friend in the form of newfound courage. It feels fantastical, and _unreal_ , and yet wholly true—as though each one of her wildest dreams had been tamed quick into a quiet existence, better than anything her imagination could have conjured.

Beside her, Adrien takes in a slow breath. The sound triggers a shy glance, a quick press of lips; Marinette watches quietly as the coastal breeze makes claim to him, rustling through hair long since destroyed from its manicured coif, leaving behind a tangle of shaggy blonde and a cooling flush against warmed skin. He stares at the ocean like it is escape personified, and the admiration for its every swell and sigh gleams bright beneath his lashes, linen scuffing as he presses close to to the wall, one foot knocking absent to sway against his ankle.

“I’ve always loved the water,” he breathes, “Every summer, every trip I could get—I’ve always wanted to be near it.”

It’s a fitting confession for one named of the sea, and Marinette smiles soft as she shifts closer, fingers pricking light against weather-worn stone.

“It is nice, isn’t it?” she muses, tucking her hair slowly behind her ear.

“Yeah.”

Nature fills the silence that bubbles between them, a welcome interlude between the weave of their words, tiptoeing beside the obvious. Marinette’s eyes continue to wander, lost within a world of sights that now feels open to her, every glance warming her with given permission rather than the guilty thrill of voyeurism. Words build fast within her, and she taps her heels lightly as her eyes dart to the coastline, knowing that this is the moment where everything may change (with one word, she could topple her world and leave herself reeling in its aftermath without any closure, or be given everything she never knew she wanted and _more_ ), fingers clenching tight.

“I have to ask you something,” she blurts, voice already shaking, “And I know this will sound crazy, but I just—I have to know, because _something_ just, it—it just feels—”

“Like we know each other already?”

Adrien smiles through her silent shock, gaze light where it catches her own. He chuckles at her floundering silence and turns to look back over the sea, resting his cheek on his palm.

“You know, when I…when I first met you, I saw something,” he continues, and Marinette’s heart pounds hard enough to thrum within her ears, “And…I don’t know what to call it, but…I was always so lost, you know? I didn’t know who I wanted to be. I’ve always been told.” His smile dampens, and there is bitterness that lingers between the admiration in his voice, words not quite genuine tangling with meaning that speaks far too close truth. “But then I had a chance to start over. I could meet new people, let myself change. Feel…free, for once.”

Marinette presses down a slow swallow, eyes caught on the glimmer that builds in dark green, a flicker of a light that she _knows_.

“And when I met you, I was still figuring out how to do that. But I saw that freedom in you. I guess you’ve always had it…you pour yourself into your art, and when you do that, you vanish. It’s just you and your work, and no one can take you away from that.” A smile builds on his face, bright enough to make her vision blur. “But outside of that, you’re…fearless, and impulsive, and…god, you’re _crazy_ sometimes—”

His name builds in her mouth, threatening to leap off her tongue but stilled by the presence of _another_.

“—and when I first saw you, you…had _no_ idea what you were doing, and you were still figuring things out, just like me, but…you made me feel like it would be okay. And when I started school, you made me feel like it would be okay. And even when things feel hopeless, and I feel like we’re losing the fight, you still make me feel like it will be okay, and I _just_ —”

“Adri,” Marinette murmurs, only half-finished, because behind her teeth hangs a whisper of _Chat_.

“I love that,” he finishes simply. Through his words bleeds the hush of the air around them, carrying every meaning along with it; it tangles through her hair and catches on her skin and burns through her dress, and Marinette blinks fast, painfully and wholly and _helplessly_ in love.

She draws in a shaky breath, buzzing tight between her lungs as the question that’s been burning in her all night finally leaps free.

“When did you know…?”

“That I love you?” Adrien says, glancing over to her as if he hadn’t just dropped the largest atom bomb on her existence. He grins. “Or that you’re Ladybug?”

Marinette’s thought process derails, _hard_.

“ _Wh_ —”

“I’ve known that for a while now.”

“Wh—bht— _how_?!”

Adrien _cackles_ , and it is bright and loud and only somewhat ungraceful, halfway to a snort as he buries his head into his arm. Marinette can feel herself fuming with embarrassment, cheeks burning and ankles weak, and she slaps his arm pitifully with an embarrassed gurgle, lips pinching.

“Don’t _laugh_ at me—”

(Adrien, at that demand alone, laughs harder.)

“But I—I tried so _hard_ to hide it,” Marinette blubbers, “How did you—?! Did you figure it out right away? _Oh_ , don’t tell me—”

“You’re just talking to yourself!” Adrien wheezes, choking on a gasp, “ _Fuck_ —”

Marinette’s breath snatches from her lungs, and it is at that moment that Adrien Agreste—youthful Adonis, child of the sun, and (mostly) pure-mouthed—merges swiftly into Chat Noir—hopeless romantic, mischief-ridden, and creatively foul. It is a union that is at once enough to send her scrambling for balance and yet at the same time grounded in blinding clarity (for how could he _not_ be).

“I’m…an idiot,” Marinette groans, her hands raising to clamp fast over her eyes, “I’m an _idiot_ —”

“Are you saying you can’t picture me in a black catsuit?” Adrien giggles, half-teasing murmur and half-watery cough, grin entirely too shit-eating as he turns to face her with chin plopped atop his palm once more, and Marinette dissolves into a helpless whine at the ridiculousness of it all.

She peeks slow between her fingers, skin burning.

“I kissed Chat Noir,” she whispers.

“You did,” Adrien affirms, teeth pressing bright on his lip through a coy grin (and it is enough to send her stomach somersaulting in shivery knots at the sight alone, her palms pressing tight to her cheeks).

“I kissed _you_ ,” she presses on, aghast.

“You did,” echoes Adrien again. His smile blooms then into one small and slightly shy, a flush warming his cheeks as he taps the toe of his shoe against the stone beneath, his eyes flicking away. “Did you…like it…?”

Marinette presses her hands tighter still, face flaming and knees weak as the heat of his gaze turn to her once more. She can _feel_ the way his smile twitches when she slowly nods, with lips pressed tight.

Adrien tilts his head, fingers wandering with absentminded leisure over the patterns of smooth stone as he shifts closer against the brush of the banister, carefully claiming the space that waits before her feet. The cool breeze of the sea trades places for a hint of warmth and a trace of musk, and Marinette swallows, mouth parting.

“Enough to want to do it again…?” Adrien murmurs; and with the soft rasp of his voice she slowly opens her eyes, fingers sliding cautious down the line of her cheeks to bare their flush to them. His eyes are soft, and the lilt of his mouth softer still, grin growing warm over his face as she stands motionless with lungs tight in shivery anticipation.

She giggles, flustered and shaky as her fingers make quick work of sweeping her hair behind her ears, one strand caught within the twist of her finger. It doesn’t take as long for her to nod this time, and the shy grin that flourishes beneath the bite of her teeth is met with nothing but glee within emerald eyes.

Adrien’s fingers wander, light, as if plucked from a string to find their mark, brushing gently against the crest of her cheeks. His palms follow to cup her closer, warming her jaw against the chill of the air—and Marinette dances closer already, heat pricking light on her tiptoes as her fingers toy ceaseless within the folds of her skirt.

“ _Good_ ,” he sighs, wistful and romantic and _stupid_ , “Because I…really, _really_ want to kiss you again.”

It’s enough to make Marinette want to roll her eyes, no matter how her grin unravels; but she is weak-kneed and helpless to anything save the singing glow of _Finally, Finally, Finally_ within her. (She is not the only one, and he basks within it, nurturing it farther from her with every graze of his thumbs over the flushed curves of her cheeks, every breath that rustles closer against the open part of her mouth.)

It is bumps of noses and bumps of knees and half-contained giggles beneath brushing lips—but then he tilts his head, and they are kissing again, and it is a slow, soft, molten thing. She drags her hands higher, bumping aimless against the warmth of his chest, and then further still, climbing across the broad planes of his shoulders, the messy curls at the back of his neck, the silken tufts of hair still clinging to hairspray about his temples. The heat of his mouth turns open and desperate and _longing_ , like she is air itself, like she is everything he has ever wanted but been too shy to pursue—and when they break to find their breath again, he is grinning, brighter than the sun, and she is giggling and weightless and dizzy with disbelief.

“You’re incredible,” he sighs, “I mean it—really, _incredible_ , and… _super_ cool.”

Realization strikes her slow, his grin too bright to be anything short of smug—and when it hits, it hits hard, her eyes rolling back beneath the flutter of her lids and a groan already building in his chest.

“Like— _super_ cool—”

“No—”

“Almost _heroic_ —”

“ _No_.”

“Majestic!”

“You—mangy _cat_ ,” Marinette seethes, a lighthearted punch thrown to his shoulder (but she is _grinning_ , and beneath her touch his body swells with a laugh, bright and unbroken and _raw_ ).

“I’m not always mangy,” he murmurs, then quick as the drop of a hat tacks on, “But _always_ mischievous—”

“I _hate_ you.”

“I love you.”

The banter ends with the whispered rush of his confession (not the first, _never_ the first—and she sees that now, the knowledge rippling bright in her veins and leaving her aching as she blinks helplessly up to the smile curled soft and vulnerable on his face). She pulls her hands up, gentle as a butterfly’s kiss, to cradle his jaw (mouth twisting at a playful pout before it breaks, bright and helpless and _real_ ), a giggle bubbling from her.

“Do you…do you even know how long I’ve liked you?” she murmurs, “Like— _even_? Almost—well, god, almost as long as you have, I guess.”

Adrien’s eyes soften then, his forehead bumping against hers.

“You didn’t think I only had my eyes on spots, did you?” he whispers. Marinette bites her lip, the tip of her nose bumping soft against his own when she peeks back up at him. “There’s always only been one Lady for me, and…she was always right under my nose.” The second pun earns a sharp huff, an ear-splitting grin, and he mirrors it, gentle and slow. “I mean it, Marinette—I don’t care what you wear, I’ve…loved _you_ for a long time.”

It makes her chest tight, sends her knees weakening (because he had always been a helpless romantic, and she had never seen it—all sides of him faceting now as easily into one as sunsets merging to dusk, and her heart thuds all the stronger for it.)

“If I say I love you too,” she says, fast and secretive and far too soft, pulling away with hands pressing earnest to the firm lines of his shoulders, “You better know I mean it too. Don’t—don’t give me any of your fairytale nonsense, Mr. Agreste, I-I think you’re _insane_ and I don’t _care_.”

She sucks in a sharp breath through her nose, cheeks stinging with heat and eyes batting wild.

“S-So—so there.”

Adrien stares at her for a moment, brows slowly climbing towards the tangled part of his bangs before he laughs, sharp and loud and unrestrained.

“ _You_ ,” he gasps, with forehead knocking against her own, chuckling still, “You have to get the final say don’t you?”

“What?!”

“You’re so stubborn!”

“ _What—_ I’m not—”

“ _Oh_ , yes you are,” Adrien wheezes, eyes crinkling at the corners. He raises his palms up to cup her cheeks, thumbs brushing soft to the freckled curve of her jawline. “And I think I like you a whole lot more, for it.”

Marinette blubbers, red-faced and frazzled and hands snapping quick to her thighs, almost half-way to tapping her heels and sauntering away before sense gets the better of her. She puffs out a breath and presses her lips, eyes casting down.

“And you’ve always got to have the upper hand,” she counters, “Or else you don’t know _what_ to do with yourself, and then you just turn into a complete fool and you know it, and you are always making those stupid _puns_ , but— _augh_ —”

She throws up her hands to her face, groaning in earnest.

“Do you want to punch me, sometimes?” Adrien giggles.

“…Yes.”

“Especially when I’m in the suit?”

“ _Yes_.”

He tilts his head, teeth catching on his lip through another soft chuckle.

“Well, sometimes you’re _awfully_ difficult too, but—I don’t care.”

Marinette whimpers helplessly into the shield of her fingers, cheeks stinging all the more.

“I don’t care, either,” she mutters, throwing all insults to the tide—for in the end, masked or not, they had fought through enemy after enemy, blood and bone and magic alike, always winding firm back at each other’s sides, and that had to mean _something_.

“Would you…be okay not caring about those things for a little while longer?” Adrien murmurs then, fingertips gliding light as the wind to rest over her own. He bites down a building grin, eyes twinkling. “Like…maybe long enough for us to get coffee sometime?”

Marinette puffs out pink cheeks, eyes snapping away.

“Only…if I get to buy _you_ coffee,” she says, quick as a flame. Adrien’s brows jolt high.

“Oh,” he breathes, and with only a slight fidget feels heat creeping up his neck, thumbs padding light over the ridges of her knuckles. “Well…okay.”

“ _Okay_.”

The grin that grows on his face is far too feline and far too _open_ , unruly for a model’s face where it slants farther on one side.

“It’s a date, then?” he says, hushed close like a secret—and Marinette _burns_ beneath the bump of their noses, fingertips staccatoing into a bristling flutter beneath the gentle warmth of his own.

“Y-Yeah!” she squeaks. “Date! Sure!”

Adrien laughs, soft as velvet, and the vibration of it buries itself deep within her bones.

“Well, you set the day and time, _Princess_ ,” he says, and with only slight smugness basks in the way the nickname slithers beneath her skin to leave her bumbling and wide-eyed. He tilts his head, a ghost of a kiss as his lashes flick up to tickle her own. “Or…should I?”

“Tuesday!” Marinette blurts, like the burst of a bomb, “After school!”

“Oh—okay.”

“T-That…café by the seine, _if you want_ —it’s really small but it’s cute, um, I don’t know, maybe four-ish?”

“Alright.” Adrien’s mouth wrinkles into a bemused grin, one brow arching playfully. “Only if I get to walk you, Miss Paying-One.”

“Always a knight of chivalry.”

“One can only try.”

It is a quiet hum of silence that leaves them with eyes blinking fast and cheeks pink, lasting only a breath before Marinette’s shrill laughter casts it far across the sea.

(It is _ridiculous_ and too much for her to handle, but it is _them_ , and it feels good—feels _right_ —as though everything she had ever thought she had been searching for had packaged itself neatly into a hidden corner, just waiting for her to turn her eyes and see.)

“Okay,” she giggles, twining her fingers slow about the hands that meet them, and Adrien smiles, unfurling soft and slow, with all the warmth of a summer sun lingering beneath the sea.

“Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Somehow I pulled myself around to finishing two wips within a month (???) and this bit finally got dusted off the shelves. I've been dabbling with this story here and there, and honestly I just love Adrinette and can never get enough ( _especially_ some post/partial reveal goodness.)
> 
> While I was writing the dance scene, I was listening constantly to [this remix of DNA](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ORf8KP0xygQ&feature=youtu.be) and was really drawn to [this choreography for Find You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y6T5Yo97jrY&feature=youtu.be), so both of those contributed pretty directly to how I was visualizing everything. In terms of general influences, one of my earliest fancasts for Adrien was Lucky Blue Smith, and [this fashion week video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ok62raz23R4) inspired tons of early ideas about a runway fic.
> 
> (How did Adrien find out? Big shrug. I've always been a fan of the finding-out-along-the-way kind of headcannons, especially where the characters come to see both sides of each other as simply part of a whole, and as a result come to appreciate the other all the more for it. Adrien doesn't fall for Marinette because he sees Ladybug in her, he comes to see Ladybug as a manifestation of traits that Marinette already has. I'd like to think he gradually puts it together seeing parallels of Ladybug's qualities in Marinette's everyday actions.)
> 
> This fic holds a little sweet spot in my heart, and I've loved every moment of writing it. I hope you enjoyed it, too!


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